Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 57

O, thou hast left me all alone!

Thy soul and body, when death's agony Besieged around thy n.o.ble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.

My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee!

Life and this world henceforth will tedious be: Nor shall I know hereafter what to do If once my griefs prove tedious too.

Silent and sad I walk about all day, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie; Alas! my treasure 's gone; why do I stay?

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love, Wonder'd at us from above!

We spent them not in toys, in l.u.s.ts, or wine; But search of deep Philosophy, Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry-- Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say Have ye not seen us walking every day?

Was there a tree about which did not know The love betwixt us two?

Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; Or your sad branches thicker join And into darksome shades combine, Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!

Large was his soul: as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body here; High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have, But low and humble as his grave.

So high that all the virtues there did come, As to their chiefest seat Conspicuous and great; So low, that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught As if for him Knowledge had rather sought; Nor did more learning ever crowded lie In such a short mortality.

Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, Still did the notions throng About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his G.o.d or friends forget; And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, Retired, and gave to them their due.

For the rich help of books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with notions written o'er, As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always lived, as other saints do die.

Still with his soul severe account he kept, Weeping all debts out ere he slept.

Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the Sun's laborious light, Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day.

But happy Thou, ta'en from this frantic age, Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!

A fitter time for Heaven no soul e'er chose-- The place now only free from those.

There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever s.h.i.+ne; And wheresoe'er thou casts thy view Upon that white and radiant crew, See'st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

353. The Wish

WELL then! I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree.

The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too!

And since love ne'er will from me flee, A Mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved and loving me.

O fountains! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?

O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made Thy happy tenant of your shade?

Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood: Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter.

The G.o.ds, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way: And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither.

Hoe happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die!

She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.

Alexander Brome. 1620-1666

354. The Resolve

TELL me not of a face that 's fair, Nor lip and cheek that 's red, Nor of the tresses of her hair, Nor curls in order laid, Nor of a rare seraphic voice That like an angel sings; Though if I were to take my choice I would have all these things: But if that thou wilt have me love, And it must be a she, The only argument can move Is that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see Each common object brings.

Roses out-red their lips and cheeks, Lilies their whiteness stain; What fool is he that shadows seeks And may the substance gain?

Then if thou'lt have me love a la.s.s, Let it be one that 's kind: Else I'm a servant to the gla.s.s That 's with Canary lined.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

355. An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland

THE forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languis.h.i.+ng.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urged his active star:

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide:

For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old Into another mould;

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain-- But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak--

Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar?

And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art;

Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Caresbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armed bands Did clap their b.l.o.o.d.y hands.

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;